Letters To Sherlock
by jessisnotdeadyet
Summary: These are the letters that John wrote to Sherlock during the time when he was 'dead'. He left the letters on his grave every week on a Wednesday, starting from one month after the Fall. Includes Johnlock, and these letters will lead on to a fanfiction in story form rather than letters which I am currently working on. Mystrade included in such fanfiction.
1. 15 02 2012

Dear Sherlock,

It's been one whole month since... You died. It's gone so quickly. Still feels like yesterday. Still hurts as much, too.

I can't decide what to do with myself nowadays; there are no crimes to drag me out of the flat and none to write about. Because you're not here anymore.

221B's been lonely since you left. There's no one shooting the walls, no one leaving severed heads in the fridge or eyes in the microwave. No one's lying on the sofa in their dressing gown, shouting "BORED!" every five minutes. There's no secret stores of cigarettes, no microscope slides or conical flasks cluttering up the kitchen surfaces. It's just empty. Well, empty except for me.

I've promised myself that I will never re-draft these letters, because that would be like editing. And editing isn't honest, Sherlock, and I know you'd always want me to be honest with you.

Why am I writing this? You'd probably say that it was sentiment, which, I suppose, to some extent it is. But when I really look at it, it's because I write, Sherlock. And since I can't blog anymore, it makes sense for me to write these letters to you.

You'll never get the chance to read them, I know, but the great thing about that is that no one will ever have to know how I really feel. And I feel terrible. I am so alone and tired and I can't really cope anymore. I pretend that I'm okay for Mrs Hudson and Sarah, but I'll never be okay, Sherlock. And you should have thought about that before you decided to die.

You'd think that I was an idiot for writing this. I know you would. But I can't leave you behind. I just can't. I will never understand why you took your own life, and said to me the things you did, but whatever happens, Sherlock, I will always believe in you. It doesn't matter that you never gave me an explanation, because it's never been a question, Sherlock.

Your John.


	2. 22 02 2012

Dear Sherlock,

This week has gone by without a single worthwhile story to tell. I've worked, I've read, I've slept. It's all so... mundane. And _boring, _Sherlock. How can I ever settle into this dull existence when all I think abuot is how fast the hours flew when I was with you.

I don't fall asleep at my desk anymore, and I don't ever get hungry because there's no you to drag me out in the middle of the night to a crime scene or interrupt my meals with the words "Come on, John." To anyone else, it might seem like a release, but to me it just enhances the longing I have to get back into that life.

You told me that I didn't fear the War, but that I missed it. And this is exactly the same. I miss everything about you, from your violin to your 'we-both-know-what's-going-on-here' face. God, what I wouldn't give to have you back, Sherlock.

If you wanted to know, Mrs Hudson is fine. She's still running the shop, doing well, and out of the kindness of her heart, she is letting me stay here on Baker Street even though I can only afford half of the rent.

She doesn't talk about you around me. In fact, no one does. Instead they whisper behind my back and then look at me with pity every time I stumble because some memory of you has pushed its way to the forefront of my mind. I hate that. I don't want pity, Sherlock. You'd understand how I feel.

I'll try to keep you up to date, considering that you can't read the papers anymore. Maybe there'll be something that catches your interest. Or maybe there won't. Either way, I'll still tell you.

Your John.


	3. 29 02 2012

Dear Sherlock,

This week in the news:

There's been a reported kidnapping of a woman named Lilian Biggs. She was 28, and lived on the outskirts of London. She went missing yesterday.

There's not actually that much else to say. I'm sorry, but I tried.

Sarah and I went out last night. Got some Italien food from that place around the corner. It was nice, I guess. But it was no Chinese circus.

Mrs Hudson sold your lab equipment the other day. I hope you don't mind. But it had to go somewhere, and we weren't using it. Now the flat's even emptier than before. You could call it tidy or organised, but it's just a reminder to me that you're never coming back.

It feels like you're slipping away sometimes, as gradually more and more of your stuff gets put away into boxes and shunted into your bedroom. That room is like a morgue itself. A tribute to you. I hardly ever go in. There's so much dust on the floor that sometimes I wonder if I can see little mouse footprints in it. I hope we don't have mice. They're bastards to get rid of.

I haven't seen Molly at all recently. I don't see her at the hospital, and she never drops in. It's like the only reason that she ever came round was to see you. That's probably true. You know how she felt about you.

Well, this letter was you read it, you'll probably think I'm an idiot (again). But there you go. We can't all be brilliant all the time.

Oh, and Sherlock, have you noticed that the letter's I've been leaving keep disappearing? I leave them on your grave, and by the next day they are gone. I'm guessing it's just the groundskeeper picking up rubbish, or keeping people's hopes alive. Or reading the letters because he's nosy and disrespectful. Oh well. Can't really do anything about that, can I?

Your John.


	4. 07 03 2012

Dear Sherlock,

Greg and I have kept in touch, if you didn't already know, and three days ago he rang me and called me out to a crime scene. I know what you're thinking: "John at a crime scene, expected to miraculously deduce the answer?" But apparently the police are lost without their consultant detective, so they turned to me.

It's not like I was of any help to them. I looked at the body, but I'm not you, Sherlock. Nothing stood out to me, and there was none of that genius that you had. I think they just hoped that I'd picked up something from you. But you always surprised me, and I could never be as clever as you.

Anderson was there, like he always is, and he kept spouting nonsense at me whilst I was examining the body. I told him to shut up for you. I thought you'd appreciate that. I think Greg might have smiled, but he covered it up pretty well.

There's no use in me telling you what I saw on the body, or whether they were wearing a wedding ring or not or even who they were. Because I won't have noticed anything of importance that could possibly help you to solve this case. I know you would have had the answer within five minutes of entering the room.

Greg... Well... I'm not sure what he thinks about you. I still wonder whether he believes in you or not. When we were at the crime scene, I heard him say: "I wish Sh-" And then he caught himself, as though he remembered that you were apparently a fake and could no more have helped him than I could.

But I know you weren't a fake. I know because I knew the real Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock at home, who would run around screaming for cigarettes, sulk on the sofa for days on end, put body parts in the fridge with the food, shoot at a smiley face on the wall and walk around in only a bedsheet. That was the real you, and I don't think that's possible to fake.

Your John.


	5. 14 03 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I think Greg's given up on me. We're still staying in touch, but after my third unsuccessful case, he told me that he wouldn't bother me again, and that I was "No Sherlock Holmes." I knew that already, so I told him it was fine. But now I kind of miss it, as it was the only thing left that could even bring me close to the life I had with you.

Every day I get closer to realising exactly how you felt when you didn't have any work. The boredom is horrific. Sometimes I wish I could get back into the army, to serve again, just to get away from this hell that I am living. I don't like life anymore. It has very little appeal when you're not running for your life or chasing after a man who made every day an , no, Sherlock, I'm not going to kill myself, so don't worry about me. I wouldn't do that to the people who I would leave behind.

Sometimes I get flashbacks of you, and of us. And they hurt so much that I can't move for the next few minutes. I hear your voice and I see your face in my mind and it reminds me of how absolutely happy I was, and how much I loved being around you. I took you for granted sometimes, Sherlock, and sometimes I even resented you. But how could I ever, when I look back and see how amazing it was to be your friend.

I'm still angry. Still very angry, but mainly because you didn't even offer me any sort of truth. I knnow that you lied to me in that phonecall. And those lies were the last things that I ever heard you say. Why couldn't you at least tell me something with some validity to it? Why tell me lies, why try to convince me that you weren't the man I knew you to be? Why would you do that, Sherlock? Why would you do that to me?

"Goodbye, John." They were your very last words. And I will never _ever _forget them. I will carry them with me until the day I die, because you were, and are, my best friend. And I will never stop believing in you.

Your John.


	6. 21 03 2012

Dear Sherlock,

Do you remember that time when you and I were sat in that restaurant by Northumberland Street, and your friend who owned the restaurant kept calling me your date? Well, of course you remember. You never forget anything. Except that the Earth goes around the Sun.

Well, my point is... There is no point. I'm just remembering our time together, and I'm starting at the beginning.

But that night was a big turning point for me, because that was the night that you cured my limp. In the heat of the moment you made me forget that it had ever existed, and then we ran across rooftops and down alleyways, and I didn't even notice. We got home and your friend came and dropped my cane off. I couldn't believe it. I was so overjoyed that I could say no words to express how grateful I was. That, I think, was the moment when I realized that you were someone I couldn't live without. I owe you so much, Sherlock. I've said it before but I have to say it again, because it's true.

I had freedom, because of you. I had the freedom to walk and run and move without hinderance or constraint. It's a gift greater than any that money could buy. And even though you are gone, and the memories hurt, I would still rather have known you and lost you than never have known you at all. Despite the grief that you have caused me, I will always look back at you as the man that I knew you to be: that charismatic, fantastic, brilliant, human, high-functioning sociopath. And that man will always make me smile.

Your John.


	7. 28 03 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I think I am going to take a job at the hospital. Work at the surgery isn't really doing anything for me at the moment, and I know I'd be better off in a hospital environment. What do you think? I mean, getting a full-time job was never an option with you, so it feels strange to be faced with the possibility. But I need something to take my mind off this.

Mrs Hudson is doing very well. She seems to have gotten over you now, but sometimes I catch a glimpse of the sadness in her when she walks into the flat and sees that you're not there. I caught her staring at your violin yesterday, where it sits by the window. Like she was waiting for you to come home and play her a tune.

Sarah and I are doing fine. Just plodding along. Our relationship doesn't seem to be getting any better, but it's getting no worse either, so I'm happy to stay where I am.

Greg called me yesterday, asking me if I wanted to go out for a drink or two. I told him yes, so that is what I am doing tonight.

I still haven't seen Molly. I don't know if she's avoiding us or not. Maybe she feels too sad to come and see us. I wouldn't blame her if she is.

You know, I haven't seen hair nor hide of Mycroft since you died. It's as though he's disappeared entirely. But then, he was only ever your brother, not really one of my friends, certainly. I hope he's alright. Though he never seemed to care about anyone, I guess he must have when it came to you.

I realise that this is all quite trivial, but I wanted to write to you, even if the letters you receive are pointless and lacking in interest. I promised to keep you up to date and well-informed, and that is what I am doing.

Sherlock, there's one person I know you care about that I haven't mentioned in any of my letters, and that is Irene Adler. I told you that she was alright, and under protection from the US government, but I suppose I shouldn't have, because it was a lie. Irene Adler died. And I'm ashamed that I didn't tell you sooner, but I didn't think I could. I didn't want to ever see you unhappy.

I'm so sorry, Sherlock.

Your John.


	8. 04 04 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I took that job at the hospital, so now I'm working on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Sundays, 9:00am until 6:00pm, and I do night shifts on Fridays. I started on Monday and I'll tell you now that it was one of the best decisions I could have made. Just to feel useful again is a joy, and helping people has always been a priority for me. After being left without you to help, Sherlock, the hospital is a factor much welcomed into my life.

I remember you telling me that caring about people won't help them, but, as a doctor and not a detective, I can't help but care for the people who I treat. If you don't care about them then you can't really help them, as you'd just ignore how they're feeling and that wouldn't help them get better. But I understand why you did not deign to care for the people involved in any of your cases.

You had several people who you did care about, though. Mrs Hudson, Greg, me, and maybe even Molly, to some extent. And I know that even though you class Mycroft as your arch-enemy, don't try to tell me that you didn't care about him too.

And these are the people you left mourning you, Sherlock. And we are still grieving and some of us are still not able to believe that you're dead. You were far too clever, far too _strong _to ever have killed yourself. Or so we thought. It's just so difficult to comprehend, and so painful to think about.

I'll write again soon. In a week, like always.

Your John.


	9. 11 04 2012

Dear Sherlock,

Work is really taking it out of me. I'm so tired all the time, both mentally and physically, but it's all better than being bored again. I feel more like I used to; tired and hungry, but for different reasons than when I was with you. Working at the hospital is helping me a great deal, though, and now I can pay off more of the rent, which makes me feel better about dumping myself on Mrs Hudson still.

Speaking of which, I am actually helping Mrs Hudson do up 221C, so that she can get someone else renting up there. We're having to strip everthing back before we can do anything to it. Actually, I'm doing all of the work, and Mrs Hudson is volunteering her support and her money to help me get finished.

So yes, I've been very busy for the past week, so it was hard to get any time at all to write this letter to you. But I've managed, and I'm writing this sat at the dinner table whilst eating a pizza I ordered. It's too big for me to finish by myself, because I expected Sarah round for tea, but she decided last minute that she couldn't come. So I'm left with a 20" pizza and a lonely flat. Not even Mrs Hudson is in tonight. She's gone out with Marie Turner from next door.

Drinks with Greg the other week went well, thanks for asking.

Your John.


	10. 18 04 2012

Dear Sherlock,

Work on 221C is going very well; we're now all done with stripping it back and on Friday we're starting on the plastering. It's a big job, but Greg's offered to come round and help, so hopefully we'll get it done quicker. Mrs Hudson's been picking out wallpapers and flooring tiles for the flat, but they're not going to do much good for a while. If you were here, would you be helping us? I can't imagine you doing anything like this. You'd probably just watch us and add little comments every now and again.

I shouldn't think you'd be interested, but Sarah hasn't called me for a couple of days and I haven't seen her in ages. I hope there's nothing wrong with her. I'm probably just worrying for worrying's sake, but I can't help but feel a little anxious.

But anyway, Sherlock, this week Greg told me that he'd found that girl who went missing, you know, the one I told you about? Lilian Biggs? Yeah, they found her on Sunday. She'd been raped, apparently, and then left in the middle of some woods a little way away. She was suffering from hypothermia, and was admitted into the hospital for a bit whilst she recovered. So there's some good news for you. I don't think the world gets enough good news nowadays, so it's a relief when we actually do.

Can I ask you a quick question, Sherlock? Well, you can't really say no, so here goes.

You know that I have always been loyal to you, and that I'd always put you first, even over all the girlfriends that I've had since I met you. Well, why do you think that is? Why would I see you as more important than my love life?

It's a stupid question, but I really just don't know the answer. I've thought, but I'm so confused because I can't figure out why. I know you can't answer me, but maybe writing these words down on paper will help me get my thoughts in order.

Nope. I'm still stumped.

Your John.


	11. 25 04 2012

Dear Sherlock,

221C is finally plastered! We've started painting the ceiling now and replacing some of the old floorboards. Work on the flat has been progressing more quickly than we could have hoped, so we're aiming to be done by the end of next month. We've ordered in all the new skirting board and it'll be arriving tomorrow. It may not be very important to you, but this renovation is a big part of my life right now. How could you ever have believed that I wouldn't be lost without you?

I saved someone's life today. Again. Their heart stopped as they arrived at the hospital, after having a heart attack. I got the paddles and shocked them back to life. Saving people like that makes me feel good about myself, even if it's easy for me and just part of regular routine. This is why I love being a doctor, and a good doctor, because I can do the most for people that anyone possibly could. Saving their lives. You did that as well, Sherlock, but in a different way. You stopped people from dying by stopping the people who would cause them to die. We are both the same, really. Except you work in the long-term, whereas I work in the short.

Sarah and I are back on track. She came around and we went out for dinner and went to the cinema. She was just really busy, and I guess I was too. That's all I have to say on that matter. You don't really want to know about Sarah, do you Sherlock?

Just quickly, did you have time to think about that question I asked you? I don't want to pester you, but I'm still not getting anywhere with it.

Your John.


	12. 02 05 2012

Dear Sherlock,

The days have been getting on, but I feel like they're leaving me behind a bit, because everyone and everything around me is moving forwards, but I'm still stuck in the past. In the time when we were together. Because that's the last time I remember being happy. Really happy.

I don't know how to say this, or how to fully express what I mean, because there aren't enough words in the English language to convey exactly how my mashed-up emotions are working.

What I can tell you with overall clarity is that I miss you, Sherlock Holmes. I miss you with every fibre of my being because you made me feel alive. You opened up the doors to a world where nothing was simple, nothing was dull, and nothing was insignificant or forgotten.

And now it's just so bleak. My future was bleak before you came along, and my life is bleak now that you're gone. Without you, there's nothing for me. I wouldn't be where I am today if it wasn't for you. No Mrs Hudson, no Greg, no Sarah. And I certainly wouldn't have any deductive skills whatsoever.

You were a gift to my life, and Sherlock, you know that when you give a gift you're not allowed to take it away. But you were always a rule-breaker. You took that gift when you took your life. That's not okay, Sherlock. But you can't give the gift back now, can you? So it's pointless even imagining you walking through that door every single night before I go to sleep.

Your John.


	13. 09 05 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I didn't really finish that last letter, did I? I missed out almost everything that I was trying to say and babbled on about something you already know. Do I bore you, Sherlock?

My main point that I had intended to write about was how I felt - and feel - about you. Because I've never told you. Or at least, I haven't told you much. I took it for granted that I probably would never have to, seeing as I'd integrated you into all of my future plans, and some day we'd be so close that you'd simply realize how I felt. How I feel.

Because I hoped that one day you would realize that I loved you, Sherlock. As a friend, a companion, and as a partner. You shone light into my heart, and I thought that the feeling that you gave me was entirely the best feeling possible to know.

But also the worst, because when the one you love considers themselves married to their work, you really don't stand a chance, do you? Not when you know that your friend is an apparant asexual and "not looking for anyone".

You see how much of an effect you've had on me? That was the day after we met, when you said that. But I can remember every word you spoke. When it vomes to you, the human memory is not only 60% accurate. Or at least it isn't for me.

You're probably reading this and having a heart attack. Because you do have a heart, Sherlock Holmes. The only problem is that it doesn't belong to me.

Your John.


	14. 16 05 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I'm sorry about that last letter. I just had to say it. I couldn't keep it in anymore. It's probably inconsequential to you - it certainly is for me now. Because this can't have any consequences. But you never cared about love anyway, and you never saw it as something of importance. Especially seeing how you treated Molly. But it did get better for her after you found out. It won't have the chance to get better between us.

You may be wondering how long I've known about this. Well, it's a bit hazy, even for me. Because when I realized, I discovered that I'd always felt that way from the moment that we met.

You intrigued me. You made me wonder, and you sparked my brain into thinking and exploring the many mysteries of your character. It's not that I ever _began _to love you, it's just that I always did.

And that's the way it's meant to work, isn't it? That love isn't created with intention, but rather discovered slowly through subconscious feelings gradually emerging in a time span much longer than you know. Or is that just me again, hoping that the love I have for you is the true love that will never fade.

But why am I still with Sarah, then, and why did I ever go out with her in the first place, when the person I really cared for was right beside me all along? The truth is, Sherlock, that it was you or no man. I would only have ever been gay because of you. I was so uncertain of my sexuality when I was younger that I suppressed any feelings I had for men. I lied about having feelings for you because it was hard for me to accept that those feelings so long contained were slipping out again.

Well, there you have it. Now you know everything. I hope you understand me, and you don't think any differently about me because of this. I'll still be your friend, and, if you can tolerate my feelings for you, then I'll still be your flat-mate, in a way. Your chair will remain empty.

Your John.


	15. 23 05 2012

Dear Sherlock,

In telling you the truth, I have neglected to update you on events. Sorry. I had to explain myself.

So the news on 221C is that it's nearly finished! The wallpaper's been put up, the tiles in the kitchen have been laid and the fireplace is all done up with a new mantlepiece. I didn't stick a knife in this one. Mrs Hudson is very proud of me and to say thank you she bought me a jumper. I love it, of course; it's this beautiful green, and matches exactly the colour of your eyes. I don't think she realises that, but it must have attracted her because of the subconscious connections. Greg has been a great help, and we couldn't have gotten so far s quickly without him. All that's left to do is furnish the flat and get the shower working. We've put up an advertisement in the shop, and we're hoping someone'll be interested.

I'm getting into the routine at work now, so I can function properly. I'm getting my meals in, and I sleep at every possible opportunity. So I'm alright, in that sense, because I'm not feeling like hell anymore.

Speaking of the hospital, I saw Molly yesterday. She came into work just as I was leaving. I said hi, and we had a quick chat, asking how the other was and things like that. She tried to be happy, but she just looked very sadly at me. I can't tell you if it was sadness for me or for herself, or both. It was probably both. Neither of us will ever recover, because it's not possible to when you lose the person you love.

It was good to see her, anyway. I'd been worried about her. I'm glad that she's coping. But you only have yourself to blame for all this unhappiness.

I'll write again later. I've left all the newspapers for the last two weeks for you, just in case you find something interesting that I missed. I hope that groundskeeper doesn't mind all this paper that he'll have to clear away. Oh well, I don't really care. You're more important to me.

Your John.


	16. 30 05 2012

Dear Sherlock,

We've got someone coming round at the weekend to look at 221C, which is exciting and rewarding for us all. Mrs Hudson is so anxious to make a good impression that she's ordering in all of this furniture that isn't exactly cheap. But she says it'll all be worth it in the end when she's bringing in all this extra rent.

The person who's coming is apparently a young woman who's trying to find somewhere to live so that she can work here in London. She came into the shop on Monday and saw the advert, and thought that it was ideal. I wasn't there at the time, but Mrs Hudson tell me that she seemed perfectly nice. I hope she does decide to move in - it would be a relief for us.

I've been going to see my therapist again, since you died. It hasn't really helped, but I felt like I needed to do something. She knows, I think, that she won't be able to fix me, but she's doing everything she can, and I appreciate that. Would you believe that I hadn't seen her in eighteen months? I didn't have any reason to go back to her after you stopped my limp. That last time I went to see her, before I met you, I told her that nothing ever happened to me. How wrong I was.

My blog took off when it was filled with you, but I'm getting no more views now. No one wants to hear about "the fake genius, Sherlock Holmes". I'm not writing it anymore, because I have nothing to write about. Now you're dead I have nothing to say because nothing does happen to me anymore.

So these letters are composed of nonsensical rubbish and nothing of importance. They're probably boring you. But it's a sort of therapy for me, much better than anything my therapist could offer me.

I wish I didn't have to write these. I wish that you were here and bringing back into my life that which you did in the beginning. My existence is dull. Please help me, Sherlock.

Your John.


	17. 06 06 2012

Dear Sherlock,

The woman who came to look at the flat is moving in later today (it's only 5 am). Her name is Nina Bargman, she's twenty-three, and she's just finished her course at the art college. She does design and some creative media, but she mainly paints and does exhibitions of her work. Shall I give you a description of everything I've noticed about her? See how I'm getting on with my deductions? Okay.

Her hair is long, all the way down to her waist, I'd suppose. But when I've seen her she's always had it tied up. That would mean that it gets into her face when she's working, so I assume she always paints standing up. Her hair is also really dark, just like yours was, and sort of curly, but more wavy. It's naturally that way, because a woman who wears absolutely no make-up would probably not be expected to curl her hair every day. It even has flecks of red, blue or white paint in the ends where it's dipped into her paint palette. But the colours are different every day, so she showers a lot, but paints enough to always have some strange colours in her hair.

Her face is always smudged with something, be it paint, charcoal or graphite, and always on the right cheekbone and under her left eye where I assume she itches when the bits of hair that have fallen out of her hair tie tickle her.

Her eyes are constantly bloodshot, which suggests that she doesn't sleep very much or very often, but she seems to be alert enough, as though she's used to it. I'd say that she loses track of time often, because she gets so engrossed in her work that she forgets to see to the needs of her body. Maybe an obsessive personality? They're brown, her eyes, I think. But in the light they're blue-green around the edges and a hazel brown in the middle. Quite a mixture of genes there. So quite contrasting parents, then.

She doesn't have any animals, because there's no pet hair anywhere on her. She was wearing a shirt that was a day old last time I saw her, if we look at the creases. Her shoes aren't ever polished, because they are covered in scuff marks. She's right handed, because the right cuff of her coat is ever so slightly more worn than the left.

Have I missed anything? Well, of course I have. Probably everything important. But I'm no Sherlock Holmes. Still nothing like you. Still nothing without you.

Your John.


	18. 13 06 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I've really been getting to know Nina; when she's not busy and I'm not at work we go to each other's flat and have coffee or tea. And in the evenings, Mrs Hudson joins us in our flat (221B) and we all have a chat and a drink with some cakes from the shop. It's really nice to have some company. After so long being alone, having Nina to talk to is an absolute pleasure. She's actually quite interesting. Well, she's interesting to me. Maybe not to you because you only find dead people and seriel killers _interesting_.

Don't be jealous, Sherlock. And don't worry, because she'll never be able to replace you. It's just good to have someone to talk to when I need it. And though she's not half as amazing as you were, she's a decent substitute.

Greg and I met up on Saturday, and we went out for some lunch. We had a bit of a talk about recent happenings, such as this murder. It was some young man in the north of the city. Anyway, his killer's been found already. So if they could work it out that easily, surely it would have been too trivial for you.

We talked about you, actually. But Greg found it quite hard, I think, to say anything he wanted to. He kept pausing and sighing between words. He said that he was still disbelieving that you could ever betray us all like you did. He said that he doubted you, I mean _really_ doubted you, when you ran from the police and held a gun to my head. That was the only thing that really shocked him, and it was what made him believe that you were a fake. The thing that got me was that he genuinely believed that you would have pulled the trigger on me if he'd tried anything. It seems unrealistic to me, and it's strange to think that they saw you as a threatening and sadistic murderer. It's unbelieveable. But that's what Greg told me.

I trusted you so completely that I would never even have considered that. I wasn't scared or worried that your finger might slip and I'd get a bullet through my head. I was fine, just as long as you were beside me.

I'm not fine now.

Your John.


	19. 20 06 2012

Dear Sherlock,

You'll never believe what's happened!

So you remember that you started getting famous after you solved the Reichenbach mystery, and people started getting interested in you as a detective. And I don't think you would know, because you never used the internet for anything except research, but there were a lot of people who became quite obsessed with your cases and began... I think the technical word is "fangirling".

So I woke up on Saturday morning, quite late, and I got ready to go out, but when I opened the door I was ambushed by a crowd of screaming girls (and some boys). And then I noticed that they were all holding pieces of paper with letters on them. When they held them up, it said "WE BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES". And all around, on the walls, on the windows, on the telephone boxes and signposts were coutless posters with drawings of you and Moriarty, saying "MORIARTY WAS REAL", and "SHERLOCK HOLMES WAS NOT A FAKE", with hashtags (you won't know what those are) like #believeinsherlock. It was absolutely unreal.

Because I thought that the whole world had given up on you, but these people showed me that I wasn't the only one that still believes. The support that this gives me is absolutely amazing and it has renewed my love for the world, even if I have to live in it without you.

Your John.


	20. 27 06 2012

Dear Sherlock,

The posters have all been taken down now by the police. They said it wasn't appropriate for people to be supporting a murderer and giving encouragement to a man who was evil in all aspects. I nearly went out and fought your corner, but I didn't want to get into any more trouble with the police. Nor did I want to undo all your hard work you did to take the focus off me when you 'kidnapped' me and called me your hostage.

The street's less lively without the posters, but their memory remains, and it's nice for me to know that I am not alone in my beliefs.

Everything's going fine here in Baker Street, asides that. Mrs Hudson is enjoying life and is very happy with the increased income she gets from having Nina's rent. Nina and I have been spending a lot more time together, because we do get on very well. I've been looking at her artwork, which is amazing, by the way. It's beautiful to say the least. I can understand now how she manages to pay all her rent by herself; she could sell those paintings for hundreds, even thousands, of pounds.

And what about me? Well, surely you don't need me to tell you that, Sherlock.

I left today's paper, because I found something you might want to look at. There is a potential seriel killer on the loose, and I know how much you love those.

Watch out for cabbies. I know I will.

Your John.


	21. 04 07 2012

Dear Sherlock,

There have been loads of letters coming through the door this past week from all of your 'fangirls'. They're all very sweet and supportive, telling me to be strong and to keep faith. I haven't been able to reply to any yet, but I think I'd like to.

It's been so long now, and though all this support is welcome and lovely to have, I'm just feeling so lonely. I sit in the flat, in my chair, and all I want is for you to come in and sit down opposite me. That chair of yours symbolises everything that I feel. Empty, desolate, abandoned and without you. I confess that sometimes I have to stop myself from breaking down and crying in the evenings. It's pathetic, really, but I am so terribly, terribly alone that I am overwhelmed by the feelings of misery that you left me with. I can't stand it anymore. This constant quiet and tidiness, without even a whiff of cigarette smoke to bring back flooding memories of your every breath. Losing you was losing the biggest part of myself, so now I'm a half-empty shell without a Sherlock. I need you. I am so lost. And now I feel like I will never be able to love again.

It's my birthday this week. July 7th. I never told you when it was and I never thought you'd noticed. Were birthdays even important to you? We didn't celebrate it last year, anyway. So yes. My birthday. Another year older.

But I don't want to have a birthday without you there. Even if the only gift you gave me was the chance to see your face, even if you didn't know or care. I don't think I can bear to pass this marker in my life without you there with me.

I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Forever.

Your John.


	22. 11 07 2012

Dear Sherlock,

My birthday came and went even though you weren't there to share it with me. I am a year older but in my head I am still there, in the past, in the world where I existed with you. I can't stop time passing and I couldn't stop this birthday simply because of your abscence, and I have to accept that, but I feel like my life is being wasted because I'm not enjoying it. My hours are not spent making memories, but rather lingering upon old ones.

Mrs Hudson gave me a shirt as a present, which is very nice and I've been wearing it a lot lately. It's quite smart, so it's better for going out with Greg or Sarah than just hanging around the house or wandering around London, visiting places that we have been together.

Nina somehow found out when my birthday was, so she baked and decorated a cake for me that tasted as good as it looked. And it looked divine. But I wouldn't have expected anything less of her, seeing how amazing she is at art. And she bought me this stationery so that I can write your letters on some good-quality paper. It's nice that she understands how I like to put effort into these.

Greg decideded to get me a crate of beers instead. I've already finished them all. It's like he knew that I would need them, and got me them because I had to face the day without my Sherlock.

So it all went okay, and everyone was great. It just couldn't be the perfect day.

Something weird happened, though. A little blue notebook turned up on the doorstep when I got back from dinner with Sarah. It didn't have a note, and it wasn't wrapped, but my name was printed on the first page. It's probably from one of your fangirls. But anyway, it doesn't matter.

Your John


	23. 18 07 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I've been using that notebook that came through for my birthday to write a few little notes on the crimes that Greg tells me about or takes me to. I would leave the book here, but I'd be afraid that the groundskeeper would take it and not give it back. And yes, I have convinced Greg to take me to crime scenes again. I blackmailed him into it, saying that my birthday happiness would be ruined if he didn't. He asked me if it was for you, so I told him that everything I did and everything that I do is for you. He doesn't understand why I trust you still, but he accepts it and takes me along to any interesting cases so that I can just jot some notes down in my book. It's the colour of your scarf, and there's even a purple silk ribbon for a pagemarker.

It's the small details that count in a world where all the large pieces are missing. You knew that too, and that's why you were so good at what you did, because you saw all the little things. But what made it useful was the fact that you knew what all those details meant. Something that I've found can only be achieved through experience. You can't make yourself be a genius. You have to go out, explore the world and join the dots between people, objects and places, knowing what details connect them. And so you are able to deduce things from new people, objects and places. Your not-so-secret secrets are out.

So why aren't there more geniuses in the world? Well, not all people have the natural ability to see everything and find practically everything interesting, but that's not the main reason, is it? I think it's that most people either can't be bothered, or even though they claim to want to know everything, actually, they'd just rather remain ignorant.

Am I right or am I wrong, Sherlock? Have I learnt anything from you, anything at all? But you can't tell me, so I'd better just forget it.

Love,

Your John.


	24. 25 07 2012

Dear Sherlock,

This week's been very... Stationery for me, even though the hours at the hosptial aren't getting any quieter. I haven't left the flat except to go to work. I haven't even done my own food shopping; Mrs Hudson did it for me because she knows all about my constant arguments with the self-service checkouts, and she said "I don't want you to stress."

She said that, because, well, things have happened that I don't particularly want to think about, but I must tell you, as you are my best friend and it would be wrong of me to keep it from you, as you have the right to know. I can't hold this information back from you, even though it breaks my heart to say it and it hurts me to hurt you.

It's your mother, Sherlock. She passed away on Monday, painlessly. So it was peaceful. I'm so sorry. She wanted you to have all her money, apparently. Said that you needed it more than Mycroft. And she said that it could be used to pay for a wedding... Between us. I don't know where she got that idea from. But she did. And that's the only reason why I found out about any of this at all, because I was mentioned in her will. Her will being that we would marry.

Mycroft sent me a letter telling me everything. It's the only contact I've had with him since I confronted him about selling your personal information to Moriarty before you died. It's nice to know that he had the courtesy to get in touch at all.

He told me her last words. He was there when she died, holding her hand. She said: "You be happy. You and Sherlock, be happy." Like she didn't know you were dead, and could be no more happy than I could. I wish we could have had that wedding.

Love,

Your John.


	25. 01 08 2012

Dear Sherlock,

Mycroft transferred all of your mother's money into my bank account, and I couldn't tell him to take it all back, as I have no way to give him the message. It's so much, Sherlock! Far more than I'd earn in 5 years working at the hospital. So I paid Mrs Hudson all of the missing rent, but still I am sat on this ridiculously large sum of money, with no idea what to do with it.

I don't know why Mycroft gave it to me. I know he's got more than enough - more than he can spend, in fact - but it still doesn't make sense that he gave it to me. Perhaps it's just your brother's sense of humour. "Sorry that you can't have your wedding, John. Here's the money that you could have used to pay for it!" Yeah, I can imagine Mycroft doing that. And giving me that infuriating little smirk. Bastard. Even though he didn't know, and never will know, how I actually did want us to be together. Married.

So I thought about the wedding I would have chosen for us. I thought about what you would have wanted it to be like. Who you would have wanted to be there. The suit you would have worn, the shoes you would have chosen, how you would have worn your hair, the smile upon your face. I wonder what you'd have said in your vows. Would you have told me that I was an idiot? An amazing, brilliant idiot?

I would have said that you were my life, my whole life. The person who'd made me complete, and made me think that the stars were not beautiful in comparison to you. And, as I slipped the silver ring onto the third finger of your left hand, I would have told you that nothing would ever be the same again.

Love,

Your John.


	26. 08 08 2012

Dear Sherlock,

All this extra money is making life very comfortable for me. I haven't dropped any work at the hospital, because it's best to have the constant, reliable income that it gives me, but I have fewer worries and life is easier on all of us. Mrs Hudson is definitely appreciating me lessening her money stresses. Although I don't think Nina has even noticed the increase in wealth in the household. Sometimes I forget how rich she is because she's always hanging around in frayed jeans, paint-spattered converses and vintage T-shirts. I swear she even has a pair of old denim dungarees. And of course everything she owns is covered in paint and ink. Just like a typical artist.

I would have liked to have heard more from Mycroft. It's cruel to ignore me for nearly half a year and then send me a letter and hundreds of thousands of pounds without as much as a word afterwards. It's rude. And to be honest, I would have liked the link back to you. He reminds me of you. And I know that's something that no brother ever wants to hear, but you were both observant and genius, and the way you interacted with the world was just the same. It's so hard to miss someone like this. It's tearing me apart.

Even after all this time. Even after all the therapy and the letters and the support, I have not changed. I have not improved. Half a year and I still feel the same pain. I can't help but wonder whether these scars will continue to rip my soul to pieces for as long as I will live.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," you said. I promise, Sherlock, that even though my eyes can no longer find you, I will always keep my heart fixed on you.

And until the end of my days, I will miss you and love you and cry over you. Half a year, and I am a wreck. How can I survive without you? I can't. I just can't do it anymore, Sherlock.

Love, always,

Your John.


	27. 15 08 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. Please, Sherlock, please forgive me for what I have done. I couldn't take it anymore. I was so weak. Oh God, what have I done? I just need your forgiveness. Maybe then I can forgive myself.

You have no idea what I'm on about. But I can't say it. I am so ashamed of myself. I can imagine what your face would look like if you could see me now. You'd be so disappointed. And you'd say "John", like you did when I came out of that cubicle at the swimming pool so long ago.

Can you tell me the worst thing that a living person could do? Would it be to kill someone, or kill the ones they love? Would it be to rape, torture, cheat or murder? Or would it be something else?

Would you ever see me differently? Would you look at me with disgust or pity if I told you what I've done, and what I tried to do? Can I tell you everything and know that you wouldn't judge me? There's too many unanswerable questions in this letter, and I'm sorry for that, too.

Alright, Sherlock. Here it is.

I tried to kill myself. I cut my wrists, going up my arm, not across. I knew exactly how to do it, and I would have bled to death, had it not been for Nina. She found me within seconds. I don't know whether to thank her or damn her to Hell. I am so appalled at myself, appalled at the fact that I write this from the confines of a hospital bed with thick white bandages around my forearms and a drip in the crook of my elbow. They've put me on so many antidepressants that it's hard to feel sad. But I'm sad now. Sad that I've disappointed you.

I was just trying to find you again, Sherlock. Because that was the only way I thought this could go.

I am so sorry, Sherlock.

Your John.


	28. 22 08 2012

Dear Sherlock,

They're going to keep me cooped up here in the hospital until my wounds have fully healed, to make sure that I don't try to pull the bandages off or the stitches out. They don't understand that I don't feel that way inclined anymore. I have never regretted anything more in my life. I'm having to get Nina and Mrs Hudson to deliver these letters now, I give them to them when the come to visit me. So now I have to properly seal my envelopes, because I don't want them to read what I write.

I can hear the nurses talking with them about moving me to some sort of depression clinic after they release me from here. I just thank God that Mrs Hudson is having none of it. I think she can see how defeated I am and that I'll never try anything of the sort again. She's fighting my corner, but I know the nurses are doubtful of her judgement.

I don't know what drugs they're putting in my drip, but whatever they are, they seem to be working. I don't feel depressed, but I couldn't say whether it was genuine recovery or just artificial happiness. I can't feel any pain in my wrists, so I must be on an extremely high dose of morphine, but when I move them, I feel the strangest tugging. Like now, as I write.

You would be distraught if you could see how I am now. A hollow, depressed, lonely man with no forseeable future. This could have ruined everything for me. My work, my relationship, my everyday life, my friendships.

I thought that if I could escape from the insanity of living without you, I'd be free. But it turns out that when I failed, it put more limitations on me than I'd have guessed was possible.

Love,

Your John.


	29. 29 08 2012

Dear Sherlock,

They changed my bandages first thing this morning, and let me tell you, the stench was horrendous. The cuts are infected now, and it's bad. They say I should rest my arms, but I have to write to you. My wrists are inflamed and the right one's swollen a bit. They still don't hurt, and the doctors have been injecting antibiotics into them for the last five hours. They barely leave me alone.

I've been moved to a different ward, where there's only me and this other bloke who drank some bleach. He's been screaming for them to kill him since he got here. Morphine isn't doing enough for him, apparently. Poor man. It makes me look like a silly bastard in comparison. He wakes me up in the night, yelling and wailing. It annoys me sometimes, but I have to remind myself that he's not mentally stable, and in a lot of ways, just like me. A man with no options.

When I sleep, I don't dream. Too many drugs in mys system. My mind can't function properly anymore. It's driving me to distraction. It's so boring just to lie in a bed all day, strapped down so that I can move nothing but my arms and head. I sleep all the time, even when I'm not tired becuase there's nothing else to do. Mrs Hudson brought Cluedo the other day, but I took one look at it and she knew I couldn't play. So instead I have the papers, which I've demanded be left with these letters when they're delivered to you.

They're so worried about me, and I feel terrible for causing them to be anxious. I was so selfish and so not like me that I look back and wonder how I could have done such a thing. But don't you worry about me, Sherlock. I'll be fine, I promise. You should know that I always keep my promises.

Love,

Your John.


	30. 05 09 2012

Dear Sherlock,

To keep myself occupied whilst I wait for my arms to heal, I've decided to write a book. Mrs Hudson brought my laptop over and I started planning for it. You wouldn't be interested and you'd never read it, because it's a fiction. You don't read novels. It's a crime fiction, because I have more than enough experience in the field. You may think that it's going to fail miserably; my plot will be too obvious, my characters too stupid or my solution too unimaginative. But I hope that I've learnt enough from you that you won't be too shocked at it, and say that I have a noticeable lack of writing talent. I'm going to give it a title that you'll probably disapprove of. 'The Stand-Off Comedian'. Yeah, I knew you'd hate it.

The man on my ward was taken in for further surgery on his stomach to make it stronger. The had a difficult time deciding whether or not to carry it out, because no family has turned up to claim responsibility for him, and he's been saying that he didn't want it. But the doctors eventually resolved that he isn't mentally sound enough to make decisions for himself. I'm so glad that hasn't happened to me. Freedom to choose in life is one of the greatest gifts the humanity has been given. I miss being able to make my own way around the world, but I suppose I gave up that right when I chose badly before.

They're coming back for me now with about five different needles. God, I hate them. Alright, Sherlock, I'll write again next week. Do something you enjoy before then, because God knows I can't.

All my love,

Your John.


	31. 12 09 2012

Dear Sherlock,

It was Nina's birthday on Saturday, and because I couldn't go out and buy her a present myself, I sent Mrs Hudson on a mission with my card. I decided to get her a Pandora bracelet, because Nina's that sort of sentimental person who loves to keep her memories in physical form. She paints all the things she sees, perfect down to the last detail. She has an amazing photographic memory. But it isn't just beautiful things that she paints. Mrs Hudson told me that she has a painting of me lying on the floor in Baker Street, surrounded by blood with the knife I used next to me. She paints things that stir her emotions, and I hope for her sake that she doesn't have to paint any more sadness.

The first bead I gave her for her bracelet was a smiley face, like the one you painted on the wall. It means 'Welcome to Baker Street'. That smiley face on the wall is still there, and it will never be covered up, nor will the bullet holes be filled in. Sentiment again, there.

She loved it, and as far as I could tell, she had a brilliant day. She came to visit me, and we had the birthday cake here. It was the first solid food I'd eaten since I'd been here, and the nurses looked delighted. They bring me proper food now, and I'm getting less thin - I lost a bit of weight whilst I was living off the drip. And there I was, always worrying about your weight and if you were eating, and now look at me!

My infection has gone down a bit, and the cuts are starting to knit together and scar. They aren't bad, for scars; they're only slightly puckered, but they are white, nothing like what I was expecting. But they are the ugliest things I have ever seen, even though they aren't half as bad as the scar on my shoulder.

Love,

Your John.


	32. 19 09 2012

Dear Sherlock,

We've been so many places together, haven't we? We've done so many things without even realising it. Do you ever think about how many cases we have actually solved, and how much we've had to do to achieve any of that? I've saved your life, and you've saved mine, so many times that I've lost count. I miss that. All the trust that we had in one another. You could have called us friends up to any point in infinity. I miss you in every possible way, and I want you here, even if our relationship continued to be platonic and it went no further. Because just knowing that you were alive and by my side would make me happy.

I've said this a hundred thousand times, and I apologise for that, but I write what I am feeling, and I am feeling nostalgic. Wishing for the past. Again.

I should probably tell you that the infection is completely gone. My mind isn't any closer to recovering, though. I'm not suicidal, but I am shattered more now than I ever have been. My therapist visited me the other day, but I didn't book an appointment. Must have been Mrs Hudson, worried out of her mind. My therapist told me that there was the possibility that my limp might return due to the trauma, but I quickly dismissed that idea. Whatever you have fixed in me will never be broken again. I couldn't care less what she thinks, because I'll show her. I'll show them all as soon as I can get back home.

I won't let myself down again, Sherlock.

Love,

Your John.


	33. 26 09 2012

Dear Sherlock,

They told me this morning that I can go home on Friday! The bandages came off, and they weren't going to put any more back on, but I can't stand looking at them, so I asked them to. I can't even bear my own body now, but I can't wait to get out of here.

Of course I'm not going to be allowed to go home without an abundance of painkillers and anti-depressants. The worst thing is that Mrs Hudson has been given charge over them so she will keep them somewhere where I can't get to them to take an overdose to kill myself. And she had to give them to me and make sure that I take them. It's humiliating. But a necessary precaution, I suppose.

Tonight is my penultimate night in captivity. Well, I say that, but I know that for at least a year I won't be allowed to work and they'll try to keep me safe inside 221B for as long as they can.

No matter how many times I tell them that I will never attempt suicide again, they never believe me. Suicidal tendancies are a mental instability, so they have the right to doubt my words if they don't know that the rest of my mentality is sound. I would be concerned myself, as a doctor in their position. I would treat a person like me exactly the same as what they are, so I can't blame them. I just want them to understand that I'm fine now. Or is that just the drugs talking?

Love,

Your John.


	34. 03 10 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I am finally back home. After so much time in the hospital, it is a relief to be back in Baker Street, sleeping in my own bed, cooking in the kitchen, sitting in my chair. I missed it so much.

Defying my therapist's predictions, my limp has not returned, making the point that you will always keep that part of me fixed. It was a good moment for everyone when I walked again.

Mrs Hudson has been a dream these past few days; she's looking after me so well. She makes me cups of tea and brings me biscuits even if I don't ask for them. The only problem is that she's taken all the sharp knives away, and that really doesn't help when you're trying to chop up vegetables to make dinner. I've asked for them back, but she's adamant that I stay away from them, at least for a while. She chops the veg instead. And then she gives me my pills, twice a day. A mixture of anti-depressants and strong painkillers. I hate taking them. They make me feel like I'm not in control of my emotions anymore, and I can't trust myself and the way I feel. But she always makes me swallow them. When I try to pretend that I have taken them when I haven't, she looks so sad that I take them anyway, for her. But it's difficult.

As I assumed, work is off until everyone is entirely convinced that I'm fully recovered. Which could be a while. But at least I only have to _convince_ them. If I actually had to recover, then I'd never get back to work. I want to get back so badly, though. I can't bear to be sat around doing nothing once again. Well, I have my book to write and Greg brings me cases now and again. I'm actually getting better at them. I just look at everything you'd look at - I've heard enough of your deductions to have some idea of what you're supposed to notice. I've so far solved two completely since I've been back. I'm proud of myself, and I hope that you're proud of me, too.

Love,

Your John.


	35. 10 10 2012

Dear Sherlock,

This week was very boring. Sarah took me out to a Chinese/Pan-Asian restaurant (chopsticks, no knives), but I didn't really enjoy it. The food was excellent, but I'm still quite fragile and I have to admit that to myself. So it was boring. We barely spoke, because I have very little to talk about.

I've been writing my book, as I said I would. It's going rather well so far, and I've written quite a lot due to the extreme abundance of time that I have available. I expect I'll have the first draft finished by May. It's not enjoyable to write - It'd be strange to say that writing about horrific murders was enjoyable - But it's good for my brain. I don't know why you never tried this. Life would have been so much less dull for you. It's a great time-filler and it makes you think. Your book is as clever as you are, so I'd love to see what you'd have come up with. You could've written a non-fiction book, if novels don't suit you. You had a brilliant grasp of the English language. You should have at least tried. It could've brought a lot into the world.

I don't see my therapist anymore. I refuse to. Everyone seems to think that it'll help me cope with living with my attempted suicide and getting over you, but I know better. Only you can help me. It was only ever you who could help me. When I needed someone there, you came along. Why can't you do that now? Why can't some miracle happen that would bring you back? "Because miracles don't happen." you'd say. But I disagree, because you also said that heroes don't exist. Well they don't now but when one did exist, I knew about it. And to me, you were a miracle. Don't you try to tell me that I'm wrong, because you can't prove an opinion wrong.

Love,

Your John.


	36. 17 10 2012

Dear Sherlock,

As if I ever needed reminding of how broken I am. I was fine, feeling much better about myself, and making dinner for us all. So I asked Mrs Hudson for a knife to peel carrots, and, seeing that I was feeling fine, she brought me one. I thought I'd be able to handle it. I was wrong.

As soon as I saw it, I froze. Then when she offered it to me I started screaming and holding my scars. I was crying and screaming and it was dreadful. She didn't realise that she'd brought the knife I'd actually used. There are still bloodstains on the handle. She ran away with it, and Nina came and pulled me in the shower, fully clothed. She left me, sat there under the hot water, still screaming and holding onto my wrists as though they would burst open again.

They called Greg over, and he came without need of an explanation. Why would he be needed in such a situation was a mystery to me but I was glad that he was there. It turned out that I'd scared the girls, and they couldn't do anything because they were afraid that I'd hurt them or myself. They called Greg for some muscle power.

I'd scared them, Sherlock. I'd scared the only friends I have left in the world. There is almost no worse feeling than to know that the people you love are afraid of you. It's horrible. I don't know how I can ever forgive myself now. I've ruined so many lives, and mine most of all. They were afraid that I would hurt them, but I would never and they should know that but they didn't, Sherlock. They doubted me and now I don't know how they will act around me now. Will they always be scared of me?

They're increasing my anti-depressant dosage. I won't be able to trust myself at all. I don't know whether the next letters I write will even be real.

I'm scared now, too, Sherlock.

Your John.


	37. 24 10 2012

Dear Sherlock,

You haven't been easy to remember lately. The drugs they're giving me seem to be making it more difficult for me to remember things, and I hate that, because now I can't conjure up a picture of your face or the sound of your laugh. It's purposeful, I know it is. They know you're what's making me upset so they want to destroy all my memories of you so that I'll be happier. But memories are all I have and losing them would only make it worse. Make it stop, Sherlock. Please just make it stop.

I don't want to be left without you, without my past and without the memories that will allow me to learn from my mistakes. It was hard enough having you leave me the first time. I don't think I could stand losing everything I have left of you.

My novel's going fine, I suppose, if you wanted to know, but the mixture of actual misery and drug-induced lightheartedness is giving it a rather strange tone. As in, I'm using nice words to describe horrific murders, which could tell anyone a lot about my level of sanity right now. Not very stable.

I hope I'll be in a better condition when I write to you next. It's absolutely dreadful, knowing that you're reading all of these (sort of) and that it's probably hurting you, too. Because you'll blame yourself for all of this angst. But please don't; I don't blame you in the slightest.

Love,

Your John.


	38. 31 10 2012

Dear Sherlock,

It's Halloween! I'm writing this straight from your grave tonight, sat on the damp, cold ground trying to figure out exactly what I'm doing writing it here rather than at home where it's warm and I have a real desk to lean on rather than my knee. Maybe it's because it feels quite magical here. There are candles in big glass jars and pumpkins with lights in and red lanterns hanging from the trees. It's really pretty, but I'm the only one here to notice it, because I don't think many people like to be in a dark, cold graveyard on Halloween night. Just me, then, who gets to see how extraodinary it is. Hats off to the groundskeeper, even though I still think he's stealing these letters and the papers I leave. Bet he doesn't have to buy his own now, he can just wait a week for these ones.

Mrs Hudson's been handing out all sorts of sweets and chocolate to the trick-or-treaters. I carved a pumpkin for the occasion - no trouble with the knife this time. Although it was a messy business to start with and a messy result at the end. I put the deerstalker on it, to keep its head nice and snug. You're probably hoping that it'll burn up, aren't you? Well let me tell you that it's quite safe and out of danger from any sort of flame. It's memories, Sherlock, so don't complain. Sentiment.

We dressed Lestrade up as a zombie. He looks fantastic! I'm leaving a picture so that you can see for yourself. He's a great sport. I'm so glad I got to meet him. Again, that's thanks to you.

Love,

Your John.


	39. 07 11 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I've caught a cold since Halloween, and I think it's something to do with the fact that I wrote your last letter outside. So I'm a bit ill, and feeling a bit down. Not suicidal down, so that's okay. Unfortunately I can't take anything for it in case it interferes with my medication. But that's alright, because I'm in charge of my drugs now. They're in the bathroom cupboard, not locked away anymore. Mrs Hudson doesn't check to see if I take them, so I've been reducing my dosage without her knowing. I've been keeping the pills I don't take, disguised in an empty Vaseline pot that's on the top shelf in the cupboard. They're there for emergencies, just for when I might need them. I have enough for now, but when they take me off them I won't be getting any refills. And they'll take me off them before I'm ready because I do such a good job of keeping my true feelings hidden. I don't need all that they're prescribing right now anyway; I'm managing on this lower dose. So I'm making a stash. A secret supply. Your secret supply of cigarettes is still there.

Don't tell anyone about my drug abuse. It's our little secret.

I've been out and about recently, and that's due to my apparently improving condition and therefore Mrs Hudson is more relaxed about policing my activities. She was so worried before, and that's plenty reason to keep me close, but I'm glad for the freedom and Greg's been bringing me cases again.

I asked him whether he'd heard from Mycroft at all since you died, because they had some level of contact before then, and I wondered if it'd continued to any extent. I wanted to hear something from him, I suppose. He was your family, after all. The only family you had left. And now he's all alone, without mother or brother. God, it must be hard for him. But Greg didn't really answer me properly, so I'm assuming not, although he did get a bit tense. Reasons?

It doesn't matter anyway. Just wondered and I'm still confused as to why Mycroft's ignoring me still. I could always barge into his office again. I might, actually.

Okay, I'm running out of paper now. Would have liked to write more but I'm in the margin now.

I love you.

Your John.


	40. 14 11 2012

Dear Sherlock,

As I said I would, I went to see Mycroft at the Diogenes Club. I waited there for two whole days, sitting in the chairs, drinking Mycroft's expensive liquor when I got thirsty, not eating anything. Eventually they found me in there and forced me to leave without seeing hide nor hair of your brother. He's definitely avoiding me and I would love to know why. I haven't done anything to him, so there's no reason for him to be like this. Actually, I did have a go at him on the night before you fell, when I found out that he'd given Moriarty your life story. He said sorry. In fact, he told me to tell you that. I was too angry at the time to actually do it, and I didn't pass on the message. Bit of guilt. So, Mycroft said he was sorry. There.

But if anything, I should be the one avoiding him and he should be crawling to me, begging for forgiveness. Not that it'd do any good. I can't forgive him for this. You're gone because of him. And what did he get out of the trade with Moriarty? Nothing? He certainly didn't get the keycode.

Sorry, I'm ranting. Your brother is just so infuriating. I don't know how you could bear growing up with him.

So asides those two wasted days, life's been good in Baker Street. Or should I say as good as it could be with a depressed man, an abstract and often distracted painter and a wonderful landlady who works all day. We're a funny bunch, and not quite a whole one. There's one very important person missing from our patchwork family.

What I was going to say was that Nina's art has really been selling recently. She's found a group of extremely wealthy and interested customers who will buy her work mostly without question and at any price she asks. Her work's become more publicised since, and now she's been offered a one night for an exhibition at the Hickman Gallery. The Hickman Gallery. The Golem, the Lost Vermeer, Miss Wenceslas, The Van Buren supernova. "It's a fake." Yep. There you are, Sherlock. That's your genius at work right there. Yeah, that painting was a fake, but you weren't, Sherlock Holmes. You were very, very real.

If you remember, you saved my life that day, and I saved yours. That was... What we were about. You and me, there for each other, looking out for one another. Under all circumstances and without limits. I miss having you watching my back because now I have to watch my own. Makes life so much more difficult, especially since you were the world's most observant person, and now my own inadequate talents of observation will have to suffice. I may as well give up, because if someone wanted me dead now, I'd be dead. Full stop.

Let's not think about that, though, Sherlock.

Love,

Your John.


	41. 21 11 2012

Dear Sherlock,

Facing the knife again this week was a challenge for me, so I'm back on my full dosage by personal choice. I was looking for a knife to peel apples to make apple crumble, and I just happened to pick that one up. I've had enough time now to be able to hold back the screaming, but the knife ended up being dropped on the floor with a bit of a shriek. Like I was a teenage girl dropping something that had a spider on it. So I haven't been so great. Maybe I'll just skip over this particular story. You know what this is for me so I don't have to explain it again.

On a lighter note, then, I went out for a few drinks the other night with Mike and Greg. We had quite a good time, even though I have an alcohol limit of 2 units. With all the drugs and the depression, I wouldn't expect any less. Not that it stopped Greg and Mike drinking bucketloads. I thought adults were supposed to be responsible drinkers, and they they both were, getting out of their minds when they had work in the morning. Mike's a teacher and Greg's a detective inspector, so neither are jobs where you can be intoxicated. Not the wisest decision of their lives.

They both called me during their breaks and they sounded awful. Mike's students were taking the mick, and Greg even said that he had to get Sergent Donovan to drive him to work because he was still riddled with alcohol. He told her he'd twisted his ankle badly so he couldn't use the clutch in his car. He put a bandage on it to make his story more believeable. Not that she couldn't smell the drink on him or anything. But she hasn't ratted out on him as far as I know. I'm assuming she will eventually, going by her records. Oh look, yet another person responsible for your death. What a pleasant woman.

Anyway, I've been seeing Molly again. She seems to be coming around more often, which is good. Today she dropped off a loaf of fresh bread straight from the baker's. I am under the impression that she's dating his son, so she's been getting more bread than she knows what to do with. She's well, and she's happy, and it was nice of her to bring us bread. We're having it with dinner tonight. Leek and potato soup, if you were wondering.

Love,

Your John.


	42. 28 11 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I think they're going to let me work back at the surgery where I used to work with Sarah. Not the hospital just yet, but the doctors told me that I should try and get back into a normal life as soon as I can, so they advised I get back into a job. Nothing too stressful and nothing where I could hurt anyone accidentally. So yeah, I might be going back there soon.

But it was the normal life that caused me to get so low in the first place. Well, it was more about how I was pretending that everything was normal and fine and that even though you'd gone my life was no different. I don't think I'll be pretending this time, because I refuse to get depressed again. Besides, everyone knows how your death affected me so there's no point in trying to hide it.

I'm looking forward to work anyway. I do love helping people and I love being a doctor.

Updates on home life, then. News about people. Firstly, Mrs Hudson's great and doing well. Her hip's been bothering her less and less recently so her general happiness has increased and with it the happiness of everyone around her. We're all a little brighter for this improvement. Nina treated me to dinner yesterday, seeing as she's now probably richer than I am and I still have nearly all of your mother's money in my bank account. Greg misses you, and I know that because he and I are stuck on a case right now, and it's frustrating him particularly. We both know that you could have solved it for us, but for now people are dying and we can do nothing to stop it. Molly's very happy with the baker's son, Henry, and so far it's all going well for her. I'm glad that she's finally come back to us; it was weird not to have her around sometimes. I still haven't heard from Mycroft. I'm giving up now because he's obviously going to ignore all of my attempts at contact.

Still wishing you were here,

Your John.


	43. 05 12 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I'm at work at the surgery writing this to you. It's surprisingly quiet today, but I suppose Wednesdays were always quieter than other days. Strangely enough, Monday seems to bring us the most patients. Because everybody loves Mondays.

The routine of work is helpful in distracting my mind from you. I'm not on drugs anymore so there's no artificial forgetfulness concerning memories that cause me harm. I still have the secret supply in the Vaseline pot in the bathroom cupboard. For days when I'm feeling down. But I work every day so there's not much time for me to think.

Some news is that I received and early Christmas present from Mike, because he's going away for the whole of the holiday season with his wife to America. I was going to wait until Christmas to open it but Mike insisted that he wanted to see my reaction so I complied. It turned out to be a pocket-watch. You know, like the one Mycroft has. It's on a chain and everything. It's the most beautiful little thing; mother of pearl face with diamonds inlaid where the numbers are, sterling silver with gold embellishments and gold hands. It's so gorgeous that I don't really want to use it in case it gets scratched. But I find myself carrying it around and checking the time on it, and truly I think it's a wonderful gift. Mike somehow knew that it'd be perfect for me, and I let him know how much I appreciated it. Must've cost him a fortune, though, and his income isn't all that great. A pretty proportion of his yearly salary must've gone into this present. I have to do something nice for him in return.

Isn't it that all the best presents are the ones with genuine use? I tend to find that. Giving someone a gift that doesn't have a purpose isn't very thoughtful at all. Giving someone a gift that they can and will use, on the other hand, is extremely thoughtful. Like a jumper, or a shirt, some stationery for letters or a little blue notebook that can be filled with deductions and inferences. I'd say that I'm quite good at finding gifts for people, but when I thought about what I would have gotten you for Christmas this year, I didn't have a clue. It seems impossible to think of anything you'd ever have need of.

Love,

Your John.


	44. 12 12 2012

Dear Sherlock,

It's 12/12/12 today, a rather momentous occasion. There won't be another date like this for nearly 100 years, which makes me feel lucky that I've been around to see it. Someone born tomorrow may never see a day that has all of its numbers the same. In some ways it scares me, because I won't live long enough to see another one. How awfully realistic.

So on this apparently special day, I've decided to go out for coffee by myself and just relax a bit. I've got no patients booked in for today and Sarah and the other doctors said that they could cover for me so I can take this much-needed time off. Sitting here in the café, drinking coffee with a slice of millionaire shortbread, a piece of paper and a pen. Doesn't get much more tranquil than this at 9 o'clock in the morning.

There's not much I can say about my life at the minute. Not much has been happening that's any different or interesting. Oh, but there was progress with that serial killer case I mentioned before. Greg was able to track down the murderer after receiving an anonymous tip. He jokes that it was you, because we can't think of anyone else who could have solved it. There's another consulting detective out there in the world somewhere! I'm kidding. There was only ever one and there only ever will be one.

Though this letter will end up being relatively short, the excuse that I'm using is that you don't want to hear anything irrelevant or boring. So enjoy your newspapers, and have a good afterlife, if such a life exists.

Love,

Your John.


	45. 19 12 2012

Dear Sherlock,

I've bought everyone's Christmas presents now, and I'm trying to get them all wrapped before anyone finds them. They're hidden in my wardrobe because some of them are extremely awkwardly shaped and quite large. It probably isn't the best place to try to hide them, but I can't find anywhere else. Don't chastise me for my unimaginative secrecy; we can't all be the Sherlock Holmes of hiding things. Wrapping them is proving to be rather difficult. I've wasted so much paper trying and failing.

I've had to spend a large amount of time over presents this year. Not because I have any more people to buy them for, but because I'm now rich and if I don't buy them enough then I'll seem stingy. They probably wouldn't look at it like that, but I'd feel a bit guilty. I don't resent it or anything, I have enough money not to be bothered by things like that, and I'm glad that I can treat them now. It's just a pressure that I could do without.

Greg and I have been running around on another case for the past four days. You'd have thought he'd learnt his lesson about consulting amateurs, what with how much trouble he got into over you. But I think he needs an outside eye, still reliant upon someone not legally able to intervene. It must be a comfort thing for him, but I'm happy enough to fill the space. We've been chasing down a thief, you'd have read about it in the papers. Broke into a jewellers and took everything he could carry, meaning a small rucksack full. We've been chasing leads all over the place, and we're getting close now, or so we think. We've found some of the jewellery on an online auction, and we can trace that back through the information that the thief failed to make invisible. He doesn't know how to submit items anonymously, apparently. Either that or he was in a rush and made a mistake. We're getting there, though, so that's an achievement.

Love,

Your John.


	46. 26 12 2012

Dear Sherlock,

It's Boxing Day! Christmas so far has been fantastic, but that's not really any thanks to your brother. Mycroft sent a card, saying "Merry Christmas, 221B Baker Street. Mycroft Holmes." There was also a little present for us all, but I think I'm the only one who appreciates your old books on bees. They have pride of place on the bookshelf, and one's currently at the side of my bed because I was reading it last night before I went to sleep. I didn't know you liked bees, but I can see why you do. They are intelligent in a lot of ways, and their communities are complex and interesting. You were definitely the queen bee of Baker Street weren't you, Sherlock? The rest of us revolved around your extreme power, we did all we could for you. And we are all lost without you, with no purpose and we are in a frenzy of confusion. A new queen bee hasn't come to our dead hive, and no bee ever will.

Onto the exchange of presents, then. I got Mrs Hudson a new coffee machine for the café, which she is extremely grateful for. It makes excellent cappuccinos according to her. In return she gave me a new phone, a Samsung Galaxy SII, if you were interested. So now Harry's old phone has been passed on to Nina.

Nina herself gave me a painting, and I can't tell you how much it means to me. It's of you, standing at the window with your violin in your dressing gown, playing beautifully. I don't know how she managed it, considering that she's never met you, but then again she didn't paint your face, only your body and the back of your head. I felt inadequate when I revealed her present, which was a bicycle. It's got this vintage look about it, in shiny red. I got it for her because she was complaining about always having to order a taxi if she wanted to get somewhere more than five minutes away. She loves it, of course.

I got Greg a divorce for Christmas. And I'm being serious when I say that. I literally paid for his divorce. He finally decided to leave his wife, and he's much better for it. Doesn't have to worry about her running around with other men behind his back. To say thank you he got me a sort of job on the force, with official ID, so that what happened to you will never happen to me. An official consulting detective, or so it says on the card. It was a great present, and one that will prove extremely useful as I continue to solve more cases.

Molly came over to dish out our presents, which was a surprise to me even though I'd bought her one and she came around for Christmas before. She gave me a huge packet of chocolate chip cookies, which are surely intended to make me fat, and I gave her some diamond earrings that Mrs Hudson helped me to pick out.

Sarah gave me a tea set for the flat, because I accidently broke yours when I dropped it in an encounter with the knife. Sorry. I got her a new watch, because the one she'd had kept stopping and the strap was wearing away. This watch is completely metal so that can't happen in the future.

Harry sent us some presents through the post, and what she got for me was a voucher for this recently-opened Italian restaurant called "Zizzi's". I'm planning on taking Sarah there sometime, and I'll report back if it's any good or not.

That's enough for now, I think. Well, I can't fit any more onto the page, so I'll include all other Christmas details in my next letter.

Goodbye for now,

Love,

Your John.


	47. 02 01 2013

Dear Sherlock,

It was New Year yesterday and everyone came over again to our flat for drinks and dinner, which was good, but now we're all sleep-deprived and grumpy. So I'll tell you about the rest of Christmas now, shall I?

So asides exchanging presents, we passed around drinks - I had a glass of red wine or two - and we all sat down for dinner. A seemingly impossible task, considering the lack of a table big enough for us all. We couldn't use the kitchen one because it was serving as my kitchen counter. So Greg and I brought up a couple of tables up from the café and managed to get them through the door and set them up for a traditional Christmas meal. I made the dinner; it took me almost six hours to do all by myself. We had a huge roast turkey with sage and onion stuffing, and then a shoulder of pork just in case we ran out of that. There was a mountain of sprouts, carrots, cabbage, roasted parsnips and then there were all the roast potatoes - a mixture of normal potatoes and sweet potatoes. I roasted them in oil and not animal fat, by the way. I made the gravy from scratch, too. Mrs Hudson kindly donated a jar of cranberry sauce so I didn't have to make that as well. I would've been happy to, as cooking is sort of a new hobby of mine, but it made preparations a little easier.

It was delicious, if I should say so myself. We all had a good evening in terms of food and alcohol. There were loads of leftovers which we ate on New Year's Eve. We stayed up to see the fireworks and the clocks tick over.

I remember when it was New Year when you said "Happy New Year, John." and you played the violin at the window. That year with Irene Adler. We'd just found out that she hadn't died, and you played happy music for the first time since that Christmas Eve. How did you feel about her, really? Were you attracted to her? Were you actually sad when she was dead? Heartbroken? What was going on with you and her?

Needless to say, I was filled with jealousy whenever she was around. But I wanted you to find someone you could love, and even if it wasn't me, I still wanted you to be happy. So I didn't do anything. I could always put you before myself, no matter how painful it was for me.

I loved you that much.

Love,

Your John.


	48. 09 01 2013

Dear Sherlock,

The holiday season is officially over now, as marked by Mike's return from his extended vacation in America. I managed to get his present to him, which is something that I probably spent more money on than I should have. But he deserved it. Seeing as he's spent all his money on this last holiday, I ended up getting him tickets for a fortnight's stay in Japan, all-inclusive, 5-star hotel and all the extras because he's not going to get the chance to travel for a long time otherwise. He was blown away when I gave them to him, but I wanted to do something really poignant for him. I owe him more than just the money's worth of a pocket-watch.

So life's calmed down a bit, and I've settled back into a phase where I am comfortable balancing what little work I have with my various and very varied hobbies, which now include cooking, detective work, and something else you don't know about. I've started learning the piano. I bought one the other week. It's a grand, and it stands in the kitchen where the table once was. The table was donated to Nina so that all of her art stuff no longer clutters the floor, and it can now reside upon the table. I'm not very good yet; I'm learning the most simple tunes. I don't have a tutor, I've decided to teach myself because I couldn't bear the thought of regular lessons that I'd have to miss if a case came up. It's so far not boring to me, so let's hope that I'll eventually be good enough to be able to compose for myself, even though I'm probably too old to be learning an instrument now.

Then of course there's my writing, which takes up most of my time in the evenings and through the sleepless nights that still haunt me. The book's going well, but I've had to go back and alter a lot of the plotline because I found that the way I want to take the story didn't match up with the beginning. That held me back, but they were necessary corrections. I couldn't stand for this murder mystery to be inadequate, because it would be like shaming you, and I would never do that.

I'm feeling lonely right now, so I'm going to ring Greg or Sarah or someone, otherwise this loneliness will just depress me.

Lonely without you,

Your John.


	49. 16 01 2013

Dear Sherlock,

A year ago yesterday, you died. Which made yesterday extremely difficult. Impossibly difficult. More difficult than I had ever imagined it might have been. I went back on the anti-depressants, seeing as I could hardly get out of bed in the morning. Mrs Hudson left me alone for most of the day, and I only really saw her when she brought up a Chinese when it was time for dinner. I didn't see Nina at all. I expect Mrs Hudson warned her away.

I just sat in my chair, only getting up for food or water. I'm not even sure if I ate regularly because the time seemed to drag on and I wasn't watching the clocks. I wasn't doing anything except trying to stop myself from breaking down and crying. All I could see when I closed my eyes was you on the rooftop, you falling through the air, you lying still on the pavement with blood streaking your face and your lifeless eyes. It was enough to drive me into some sort of insanity.

It felt like a knife was being twisted in my gut for the entirety of the day. Dear God, Sherlock, it's been so long. One year without... Well, anything, really. It's been torturous and so empty; I don't know what real, blissful happiness feels like anymore. Jesus, Sherlock. I can't bear this. I've turned into some kind of zombie, one that can't think properly, can't function. The dramas of life seem no more dramatic than a biscuit crumb on the floor. Everything is irrelevant. Unimportant.

I got to the point where I thought I couldn't survive anymore, and you know how that made me feel. Truth is, surviving isn't the same as living. I stopped living long before that point. I'm dead inside and I have been for a year and a day.

How long is it going to be, Sherlock? How long before all this ends? One year has already gone by. Will there be another? Another two, another three? Another fifty? Am I really counting down until my death just because I haven't the strength to decide when it will be and I don't see the point in this existence anymore? You're gone and I know that. I have to accept it even though it all seems so unrealistic and I'm in complete denial that I should never see your face again. All I'm left with is the ever-present image of your bloodied skull and your white lips.

One whole year, Sherlock Holmes. Jesus, I can't even tell you how much I miss you.

Love,

Your John.


	50. 23 01 2013

Dear Sherlock,

Hello again. I'd ask you what you've been doing lately, but I know what you've been up to. Lying six feet below the ground, cold and probably rotting by now. It's a horrible image, and not one that I want to associate with you. I'm not going to think about it, and I will do my best to forget it.

Shall we talk about my life? Seeing as there's not really much else to discuss. I'll start with Greg, because we've been on a rather interesting case lately, concerning a man having his daughter married off to a Spanish man named Fernando Juan. Mr Juan, however, disappeared with his new wife within the week and her father got extremely anxious. He hasn't heard from his daughter since she disappeared, yet they had always been extremely close and she would never have run away without saying something. So now the father's terrified that he's married his daughter to a madman, and he called the police in to help him find her. We've gotten as far as to trace Mr and Mrs Juan back to a hotel on the outskirts, but after that there was no trace, so the case was abandoned by most officers. But Greg and I have hopes that we will find Isabelle Juan and her husband, so we've continued (however unsuccessfully). I hope something will turn up so that we don't have to tell her father that she will probably never be found.

In Baker Street, Mrs Hudson and Nina have been running the shop between them. Nina's taken a break from her artwork to help Mrs Hudson out and decorate the cakes that I make for the café. She said she needed some time away from a paintbrush, which is very true. She usually has one tucked behind her ear, but not this past week. She has a tiny tube of icing there instead. The customers apparently love the cakes so much that they demanded a regular menu of the cakes we sell, meaning that I'm baking every day now. Ginger, chocolate, walnut, carrot, Victoria sponge... Any cake that you can name (within reason) and it's in the oven right now. I'm not complaining though. They pay for themselves in more ways than one.

A recent achievement of mine is that I can now play 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' on the piano! It's terrifically easy. I play it nearly all the time now just because I can, and I think it's annoying Mrs Hudson a bit, because sometimes when I'm around she starts humming it, then she realises what she's doing and shuts up immediately. She made me promise that I'd learn something else that's less infuriating before long, so I've set my sights on the popular piece 'Chopsticks'. I'm still rubbish at it, so it's 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' for now.

Speaking of music, I tuned your violin for you, and I gave it a quick polish. Thought you'd want it in good condition, despite the fact that it'll never be played again. I promise I'll get some new strings for it the next time I go to the music shop.

Love,

Your John.


	51. 30 01 2013

Dear Sherlock,

I was on a particularly dangerous case this past week, and I'll tell you now that I never want to have to do something like it again. It was a simple case of a small band of murdering vagabonds, but when I tried to interfere I got a bullet in my chest for my trouble. I'm alright, I suppose. Not dead at least, just a bit bruised at the minute, nothing for you to worry about. But I've taken some time off work whilst I recover. Now I think about it, I wonder how I managed to get myself shot when I spent half my time looking down the barrel of a gun when I was with you, but not once did I actually get shot. Yet now I get hit when I'm probably the safest I've been in years.

Everyone's been a great help whilst I've been in R&R. Mrs Hudson cooks my meals and makes me a cup of tea every now and again. She's been an angel, as she always has been. When I was in hospital she brought me some edible food so that I didn't have to eat the hospital shit. It was awful to be on a gurney again, so I got myself discharged after a day. I'm an army doctor, I can deal with bullet wounds.

Lestrade looked awfully guilty when he came to see me on Sunday. He kept apologising, saying that it was his fault that I got shot because he sent me in there and put me on the case. I told him over and over not to be like that, because I hadn't died and I was just doing my job. It's not like I haven't been wounded in action before.

But sometimes I think Lestrade blames himself for your death, seeing as he was the one who came to arrest you and forced you to run away in the first place. Maybe he thinks that if he'd let you stay in Baker Street and hadn't tried to take you in then you wouldn't have jumped off St. Bart's and you'd have solved all the stuff with Moriarty and proved that you weren't a fraud. But I've told him that Moriarty would always have gotten to you somehow, and the result would have been the same. And don't tell me you were a fake, because I will never believe it. Moriarty was responsible for your death, and I am certain of that. I don't know how, but he made you jump off that building. I wish I knew what happened back then, Sherlock. I just want to know.

Love,

Your John.


End file.
